Kate Sedley - The Green Man

Albany chuckled. ‘Plenty of rich leftovers, though, or so I should imagine.’

I snorted derisively. I didn’t suppose that he had ever eaten leftovers, rich or otherwise, in his life, not even when he was on the run from his elder brother’s court or in hiding.

‘Leftovers,’ I pointed out with an aggrieved air, ‘are either cold when they’re meant to be hot or tepid when they should be cold, and the saucers are usually wiped clean.’

That made my companion laugh outright.

‘Ye’re getting too particular, man! Too used to good living. You’ll have to get accustomed to common fare again when you eventually go home to your Jenny.’

‘Adela,’ I snapped.

He turned his head towards me on the pillow and grinned.

‘I like you, Roger,’ he said. ‘When I become king, I’ve a good mind to keep you with me as a lucky talisman.’

‘You couldn’t,’ I retorted sharply. ‘I shouldn’t stay.’

‘You might have no choice,’ was the soft response; so soft that it was like the breath of doom sighing between the bed curtains and gently brushing my cheek and making my blood run cold. I could have sworn that I saw the embroidered hangings stir.

I was seized by a sudden fear of never getting home again; of never seeing my wife and family again; after the fear of death, the most primeval fear of all.

My terror must have communicated itself to Albany for he grasped one of my wrists and shook it.

‘I don’t mean a lot of what I say, you know. I was jesting.’ He gave a sudden groan and sat up, his knees doubled up to his chest.

‘What’s wrong?’ I asked.

‘Bellyache!’ He groaned once more, clasping his hands around his knees. ‘I knew I shouldn’t have had second helpings of everything, especially the peacock. There was something evil about that bird … Ah! … And I thought the pike tasted a bit queer, but you couldn’t really tell. The galentyne sauce disguised it … And I had three servings of curd flan and pears in white wine syrup … Eeeh! … For God’s sake, where’s the night-stool, Roger?’

‘Over here, on my side of the chamber.’ I pushed back the curtains and sprang out of bed, hoping desperately that Albany could control his bowels and vomit until he was clear of my side of the sheets. I lifted the lid of the night-stool invitingly.

The duke, who was now heaving most pathetically, flung himself on his knees beside it and I held his head down over the pot, waiting for the inevitable. But although the retching continued, nothing happened, and after several minutes, Albany jerked upright and sank back on his heels, tears streaming down his cheeks, but with nothing else to show for this sudden spasm.

‘I–I don’t think I am going to be sick after all,’ he announced, wiping his face with the hem of his night-shift and giving me a splendid view of his powerful physical attributes. (In his time, he had probably made a lot of women extremely happy.) ‘The nausea seems to be getting less … Yes … Yes … Praise be! I’m definitely beginning to feel better.’

‘If Your Highness is certain …’ I murmured doubtfully, unsure whether or not to replace the night-stool’s lid.

‘I’m certain,’ Albany replied, getting to his feet. He gave an apologetic smile. ‘At least, I think I am.’

‘Perhaps Your Grace had better wait a moment or so longer,’ I suggested, ‘just to avoid a nasty surprise.’

Although the June day had been mild, a fire had nevertheless been lit on the hearth in our bedchamber, and now one of the logs gave a dying spurt of flame as if caught by a sudden draught of air. I remembered the other small draught I had experienced earlier, but which I had attributed to my imagination. I stepped quickly around the bed, but the stout oaken door was firmly shut. I lifted the latch and pulled it open, expecting to see Davey or one of the squires sleeping across the threshold, but saw only a blanket in an abandoned heap.

I became aware of the duke at my elbow.

‘What’s wrong?’ His voice sounded shrill. ‘And where’s Davey? He was supposed to be on watch tonight.’

At that moment, the page appeared round a bend in the narrow passageway that led to the main door of the guest-house.

‘Where have you been?’ the duke demanded angrily.

‘Your grace … my lord …’ Davey stammered. ‘I’m sorry, but I had to use the privy in the yard. It’s my belly, my lord. I was feeling sick.’

Albany was grudingly sympathetic.

‘You, too? Roger here will tell you that I’ve been suffering likewise.’

‘And were you sick?’ I asked the page. ‘And how long have you been out there?’

He shook his head, as though dazed.

‘I don’t know. Some little while. And yes, I was sick,’ he added resentfully. ‘Why? Has something happened?’

Albany, still clutching his belly, turned to look at me with raised eyebrows.

I was forced to admit that, as far as I knew, nothing actually had. ‘I just thought that perhaps someone had entered the bedchamber,’ I explained. ‘Draughts,’ I muttered not very intelligibly.

‘Draughts?’

‘Yes, my lord. I was just being careful.’

Albany shrugged, wished Davey goodnight and turned back towards the bed.

‘We’d best get some sleep if we’re to be up at dawn,’ he advised, pulling back the hangings on his side of the bed, which had so far remained undisturbed.

I heard, almost with incredulity, the long, shuddering intake of breath that became a half-strangled cry of terror, and moved swiftly to his side.

‘My lord? What is it? What’s the matter?’

Albany, bereft of speech, could only point with a shaking finger. Sticking out of the bedclothes, its blade invisible, was the haft of a black-handled knife.

We fell into an uneasy slumber eventually, but not before we had both partaken liberally of the wine in our ‘all-night’ jugs and sat, huddled in conference, around the dying embers of the fire.

‘You see!’ the duke accused me in trembling accents. ‘I have not been imagining the danger that I’m in. Someone has made an attempt on my life and only by the greatest of good fortune — my feeling sick and needing the night-stool — have I avoided being done to death while I slept. And you have been trying to persuade me that I don’t need your protection.’

I was too shaken myself to think of pointing out that I, too, could have been asleep and therefore unable to avert the tragedy. My only thought was that Davey’s absence from his post had been all too opportune. I said nothing, but the same idea shortly occurred to Albany, who promptly stormed into the passageway, kicking his dozing page awake with a violence that made the poor boy jerk upright, shivering and whimpering with fright.

‘My-my lord?’ He blinked in astonishment at his master, but was still more horrified when confronted by an accusation of having deliberately deserted his post in order to leave the way clear.

‘No! No, my lord! I was sick. I told you! Something I ate at supper.’

His tearful protestations sounded sincere enough, and his white face gave credence to his claim of feeling ill, corroborated as it was by the duke’s own bout of nausea. But it would have taken a shrewder man than myself to say for certain whether Davey’s tale were true or merely a skilful piece of play-acting. The fact remained, however, that whoever had made this attempt on the duke’s life could have had no foreknowledge of the page’s possible absence from outside the door unless he were in league with Davey himself …

Then I recollected that the boy normally slept on a truckle-bed or pallet inside the bedchamber, and only lack of a bolt on the door had, on this occasion, banished him to the passage. Davey’s absence might therefore have led the killer to suppose that such was the case tonight, and he had stolen in to accomplish the fell deed as quickly and quietly as possible.